


Kiss me as if it were the last time

by probee



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e01 Shalom, Episode: s07e01 Truth or Consequences, Episode: s09e02 Restless, Episode: s10e24 Damned If You Do, Episode: s11e02 Past Present and Future, Episode: s13e24 Family First, F/M, Nothing but Tiva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probee/pseuds/probee
Summary: Or, Five Times Tony Found Ziva and One Time He Didn't





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They ain't mine. None of them. I just like to have fun with them for a little while. I'll put them back where I found them, promise.

It starts like this.

It’s a stifling Washington summer night, where you could cut through the humidity with a knife if you weren’t so completely lethargic from the nearing triple-digit temperatures. The heat isn’t as oppressive as what she’s used to back home (and she has to remind herself that that _is_ her home — it’s feeling less so with every passing day in D.C.), but she has to admit the bustle of the city seems to create a furnace concentrated directly over her apartment. She mulls whether she’s gotten soft during her time in America, but she finds she doesn’t particularly care at the moment.

So when she hears a knock at her door at half past ten on a Tuesday night, it takes her a second to decide whether to actually leave the chair in her living room, because she’s pretty sure she may have already turned into a puddle right here. 

And the last thing she expects to see when she does finally open the door is _him_. 

“Hi,” he offers simply, as though this happens all the time.

“Hi,” she answers back, leaning against the door frame and eying him curiously.

(They don’t know yet that this will become a habit in the following months. One they will stop cold-turkey when it dawns on them that it _has_ become a habit.)

The air is heavy, and not just because of the rising mercury outside. This is how they work, all smoldering glances peppered with stinging retorts and the louder echo of what goes unsaid in-between. Finally, though, he ends the stalemate.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” He says it with his customary swagger, and not for the first time since they’ve met there is an galvanizing force dancing around them. 

“Well, I _do_ live here, so I should be the one asking you that.” She affects irritation, but the sparkle in her eyes betrays her cool exterior. She’s years away from admitting this, but secretly she revels in this pas de deux, forever spinning until one of them finally bows out. 

A beat passes between them, as the city’s sounds are drowned out by the thumping in their chests. 

“What do you want, Tony?” It’s a simple question, but when she looks at him in this way, with her piercing gaze alight with fire, it’s like she’s boring into his head to extract the thoughts he didn’t even know he possessed yet. 

He sighs, and the charming facade pools into the pavement beneath them. She returns the gesture with her own weak smile in understanding. She knows why he's here, then. 

It’s their first major case since the boss left them to drown his sorrows in a cantina by the ocean, and it’s taken a toll on them all. A captain’s teenage son was abducted by a former colleague disgruntled about his dishonorable discharge. The act was a clumsy attempt at a ransom payout, but things went sideways, and when they finally found the boy in a car trunk in Blacksburg, he’d long since run out of air to breathe. They’re so used to being superheroes, saving the day with minutes to spare, but sometimes they’re reminded that they’re all too human, and those are the days when running off the Mexico doesn’t sound half-bad, to be honest. 

(He’s certain “You can’t win them all” is one of the Rules, but he can’t be bothered to remember which one it is exactly. He’s not all that fond of The Rules anymore, since he doesn’t remember the one about, “When all else fails, run to the bottom of a bottle.” Mostly because he’s convinced he’d have thought of it first.)

She relents, taking a step back inside the apartment, and nods at him to follow suit, to which he obliges without hesitation. This isn’t something they’ve done before, either, but it is reflexively engrained in their muscle memory. Since the former marine left them behind, they’ve forged some sort of inexplicable bond in the wake of the team’s shakeup. It’s like he has “Not Gibbs” stamped on his forehead and he can’t escape the shadow, while everyone has already written him off as an impending disaster. His colleagues don’t seem to remember that their not-so-fearless leader is the one who anointed him as his successor in the first place.

But not her. Because she’s been through regime changes more times than she can count, an unfortunate by-product of her line of work. She knows how to adapt — she’s been doing it all her life — and unlike her coworkers she understands that change is inevitable. There is a chain of command, and for better or for worse, he is at the top of their particular pyramid. And so too must they all fall in line. Order must be maintained.

(She won’t tell him to his face that she likes this change. That as much as she cherished working with Gibbs, it’s obvious that his protégé has learned well from him, and is doing a respectable job in a thankless position. Maybe if she had, what happens later could be avoided, but she doesn’t know that yet, either.)

So while Abby pines for her father figure and scurries around him assuming he’ll fill the void, and McGee mostly brushes off his attempts at team-building with sarcasm and eye-rolls, it is Ziva who has become his unexpected ally. For all their quarrels, she’s the one who has offered the sympathetic ear — or at least a glance across the bullpen while their world seems to be caving in.

Which is why on this night, when he feels like he needs to run away and never come back, he decides instead to crash right into her. Afterward, he’ll claim he didn’t know what led him here, or what his intentions had been when he followed her into the apartment, but neither of them will ever really believe that.

She volunteers to get them some beers, heading off to the kitchen as he is left alone to survey her domain. He’s struck by just how _her_ the home is: where her peers are furnishing their recent post-college abodes straight out of Ikea catalogues, hers reflects a lifetime of travels and sophistication. (He has to remind himself sometimes that most people her age are barely out of the co-ed life.) 

He muses that this must easily be the best-looking joint on the block, which isn't hard to beat given the "up-and-coming" (to put it lightly) character of the neighborhood, but then he figures that's just as much a reflection of her chameleon nature as it is her junior status in the payroll. He also considers that she’s put rather a lot of work into a place that is supposed to be temporary. (He’s vaguely aware that it means something, too, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish.)

There are tapestries on the wall nearest the door of crimson and gold, and an abstract painting hangs over her couch he’s positive cost more than a month’s salary at his first job. They aren’t meant to flaunt wealth, but rather prove the careful consideration that’s gone into every object she’s chosen to carry with her — just like the people she chooses to let into that life, he suspects. One wall in the living room is painted sunny yellow, a show-stopping accent to this gallery, and it suddenly hits him that this is at once very grown-up and incredibly vibrant, just like her.

His reverie is interrupted by her return, two bottles quickly dripping condensation onto her hands. He takes one from her, and suddenly a shy awkwardness falls over them. They’re so used to constantly bickering that they don’t seem to know what to do when the talking stops. So he does what he does best: filling silences with noise lest some secrets reveal themselves.

“There’s a Bogie-Bacall marathon on tonight,” he suggests hopefully. When all else fails, a little Hollywood magic can save the day, in his experience. (Which is extensive at that.)

“I do not own a television.”

She meets him eye-to-eye. He takes a look around the room, and the realization astounds him enough to momentarily make him forget the soaring charge between them. 

“Of course you don’t own a TV. How could I possibly have thought that you’d have a TV in your Fortress of Solitude? Geez, what do you Mossad do for downtime? Strip your weapons and brush up on your Krav Maga?”

“Oh, I find _plenty_ of other ways to have fun, Tony,” she purrs with a glint in her eye as she nimbly sits herself down on the couch, knowing her words have had the desired effect. 

He gulps. Now this is an unprecedented turn of events.

(Except it isn’t. This was always going to happen. It’s just that neither of them will ever cop to it.)

Feeling something akin to sympathy, she decides to let him off the hook, for just a while, and pronounces the spell to bring him back to Earth. 

“Booger-McCall, they are the ones who cannot stand each other, yes?” She speaks this with a hint of disdain, but she knows this is the quickest way to get a rise out of him, and she can’t help herself. It works.

“Can’t stand— _Bogie_ and _Bacall_ are only the most iconic couple in the history of American cinema! Stars of such classics as 1944’s _To Have and Have Not_ and 1948’s _Key Largo_? Infamous for turning their on-screen romance into a real-life love affair spanning over a decade?” Sitting himself down next to her to make his point, he becomes increasingly hysterical while spouting trivia like he’s Roger Ebert lecturing film nerds everywhere, her lack of recognition driving him to the brink of madness. Meanwhile, his partner is enjoying the spectacle, egging him on for sport more than anything at this point. What was that about needing a TV?

He stops once he recognizes she’s clearly doing this on purpose, relishing in the steam spewing out of his ears.  She bites her lip, and he returns a sheepish grin. 

“I see what you did there, David. Nice try. Don’t mess with a guy and his classics.”

“Oh, I would not dream of it.” Her tone is mock-serious, but there’s a gentleness to her expression that he hasn’t seen before. And he definitely likes it.

As they settle into this easy repartee, the rest of their world fades away into the darkness of the night. Eventually, though, he changes the subject before they start divulging more than they’d bargained for. 

“We’re going to have to get you a TV. I mean, if you’re going to be staying in the U.S. of A. for the foreseeable future, you’re gonna have to learn some of our national folklore.”

“Oh, so fictional movies are suddenly historical artifacts, are they?”

“But of course, Miss David. Lesson 1: classic big-screen pairings. Bogie and Bacall, Fred and Ginger, Myrna Loy and William Powell… You better clear your weekend, it’s gonna be a doozy. And I expect a 5-page report, double-spaced, to be turned in to yours truly afterwards.”

She should roll her eyes at his zeal (not to mention condescension), but she also can’t help being captivated by his childlike enthusiasm for the films. It’s such a contrast to their day jobs hunting the worst humanity has to provide, that she finds herself wishing he’d get to spend a little more time in this land of make-believe. She wouldn’t mind the distraction, either — but she can’t let _him_ know that. 

“Oh really? Since I do not have a television, that may be a little difficult to accomplish, _Professor_.” 

(She does not know how eerily accurate that moniker will be in a short while.)

“Well, then, I guess we’re gonna have to do something about that, won’t we?” The words are out before he even realizes what he’s implied, and he expects all hell to break loose. Instead, she matches his panic with a cheeky smile.

“I guess we will.”

He swears it’s as though she’s daring him, and her stare is unflinching. He can feel that they’re on the precipice of something. It’s like time has simultaneously come to a halt and is rushing at the speed of light, and though he has the vague sense that there are warning bells blaring in the back of his head about where this is going, he doesn’t particularly care when she looks at him that probingly and twitches her mouth in the way that drives him crazy about ten times a day. He could get used to this side of them.

They stay like this for a while, letting the stillness envelop them as they both consider what will happen next. The city hums along outside the windows, but they are cocooned in the apartment, slowly letting the stress of the week wash off them with every reflective look. 

Which is why he is almost startled when she once again breaks the silence, as she absentmindedly peels off the label from her bottle.

“You know how to whistle, don’t you Tony?”

He’s taken aback for a second, until the reference dawns on him and the familiar line brings an even wider smile to his face. The Israeli super-spy is full of surprises, all right. Lauren Bacall may have sent Bogie into a tizzy with the innuendo, but he’s betting the woman sitting next to him is giving her a run for her money right now. She’s grown from the ingenue to the leading lady, and it’s showtime for this picture.

When he leaves later that night, the air is still thick and the urban buzz only marginally less noisy, but he hardly notices as the weight that’s been pressing on both of them has lifted. And when she comes into work late the next morning (which she will at least once a week for the rest of the summer), he skips the obvious opening for teasing and pretends not to notice. 

(He also hopes no one correlates her tardy arrivals with his new under-eye circles and increased intake of coffee. Because he’s pretty confident he’d crack under the slightest pressure.)

Somehow their entropy has created a new order of things, and for the first time in weeks, it is right. He has found his peace in the chaos, and though she won’t concede it, she has as well. Their brave new world may be painted grayscale, but for now, they are living in technicolor.

 


	2. ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He understands there is a good chance he won’t come home from this expedition if the finest detail goes awry. (If only he’d known she’d felt the same way before this started. Yet another thing they’d had in common, but stubbornly refused to voice.) More importantly, he doesn’t care. Because she is gone, and he suddenly finds that he doesn’t want to live in a world without her in it. Simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still ain't mine.

It’s funny, the truths a person encounters when they’re about to die. 

He understands there is a good chance he won’t come home from this expedition if the finest detail goes awry. (If only he’d known she’d felt the same way before this started. Yet another thing they’d had in common, but stubbornly refused to voice.) More importantly, he doesn’t care. Because she is gone, and he suddenly finds that he doesn’t want to live in a world without her in it. Simple as that. 

Imagine his surprise, then, cuffed to a chair in this squalid excuse for a prison cell in the Somalian desert, when her ghost appears before him. Only she isn’t a fever-induced hallucination, but present in the flesh and painfully close. He wouldn’t exactly call what either of them are doing _living_ , but in his inebriated state, he is too confused to worry about the technicalities of human existence, not when she is in front of him, still (barely) breathing and looking at him with those eyes he’s missed so fiercely over the last few months.

He’s found what he’s been looking for, just not in the way he’d expected. (Now there’s a classic line if ever he’d heard one.) In all the ways he’s dreamed of bringing her home from this — her memory, her spirit, hell even her honor — breathing and _really really real_ were never part of that equation.

When she breaks the silence as though it summons every last painful ounce of strength she possesses and dejectedly questions why he is here, he answers her point-blank: _Couldn’t live without you I guess_. It is the absolute, unadulterated truth. He may have his captors to thank for his even-more-pronounced lack of filter, but the sentiment is unequivocally his own. Because there is no tenet in his life more unshakable than that. 

He could have told her that he loved her, that he missed her, that their dysfunctional little family wasn’t whole unless she was there with them, and those statements would be accurate. Yet that isn’t the truth of the matter. Yes, he loves her, of that he is certain. As scary and as inconvenient as it may be at the moment, it is nonetheless a fact. And yes, over these past few months he’s missed her acutely like a limb that’s been severed but continues to haunt his every fiber with excruciating precision. 

But, the fact also remains that one could love a person and continue to survive long after they’d exited stage left. He’d loved his mother, but she’d departed dearly and he was forced to carry on. (Funny how death will do that to you.) He loved Wendy, but she made her choice and he wasn’t it. He was pretty sure at the time that she’d broken him, but as the adage goes, time heals all wounds, and she was nothing now but a memory in a lifetime of anecdotes. Hell, even his father’s absence-by-proxy wreaked havoc on him for decades, but if Saleem asked him right then, he’d have to admit that he loves Senior, too. (Though he wouldn’t nominate the guy for Parent of the Year anytime soon.)

So yes, he might love Ziva, that would not be not in question at this juncture. What has been abundantly clear, though, since they left her on the tarmac in Tel Aviv in the spring is that life is increasingly less worth living with every passing day, in a manner wholly unfamiliar and unbearable to him. Which is why he’s ended up in this cesspool, playing Rambo in his very own feature, sacrificing himself for her legacy. From the instant their boss disclosed her loss at sea— the fate he refused to accept— he knew that this case was different. There would be no wallowing, no mask behind which to hide, no mustering through this latest trauma one joke at a time until it replaced his reality once again.

No, he instead came to the realization that there was no universe in which he could exist without her in it. Even if she’d been radio-silent on the other side of the world for the rest of their lives, at least knowing she was out there somewhere was enough, phantom limb and all. It was completely cliché, but he needed her like air, so if she weren’t going to be around, then it was lights-out for him too. 

Which is why, back in this grotty shack in the present day, he lays it bare for her:

 _Couldn’t live without you I guess_. 

It isn’t just his typical nervous-tick deflection, but the most profound admission of his soul. He hopes he can implore her to understand, but he fears he may never get the opportunity to adequately relay that particular piece of his psyche, even if they do make it out of here without getting themselves killed. 

Still, in the face of nearly assured death, he is now resolutely calm. For she is right in front of him -- defeated and destroyed, but unmistakably _alive_. He came here looking for vengeance, to right a wrong which should have never been set in motion in the first place, and he is going to follow through with that come hell or high water. 

The kicker, however, is that he won’t be alone anymore. She might welcome death, but he refuses to let the Grim Reaper follow through, not like this. He can’t begin to fathom whatever she’s been through since her father sent her on this kamikaze mission, so he supposes he shouldn’t be so shocked at the utter resignation of her spirit to this outcome, no matter his protests to the contrary. 

If there’s one thing he’s learned over these last interminable weeks, it’s that there is ultimately no way to live without hope. He’s convinced that it is the presumption under which _she's_ been operating, however, since she set foot on the continent—that this was definitely the end of her road, sanctioned by the one person who should have protected her. It is a realization so incongruous with the warrior he’s sat beside for years that he almost wonders if it’s even possible for her to come back from this, but he vows that all of her family — her true family — will give it their best shot to prove to her that _they_ will never let her down. (Who knew he’d have a terrorist to thank for such clarity?)

It absolutely breaks his heart to even consider the scope of this latest betrayal, one more strike against her soul that inexplicably hits his own as well. Even if he’d succeeded in his task without tracking her down, he instantly knows he’d never survive the aftermath once he got back home, now that her mere presence reignites every cell in his body that he hadn’t realized had gone dormant and reminds him of what it means to breathe. _He tried, he couldn’t_ — that’s all there is to it. So he has no interest in considering any other option, not even when she dutifully offers herself as the sacrificial lamb as she’s been trained to do her entire life.

Now, though, he won’t have to find out what life is like without her. ( _Yet_.) She is here, and he is here, and soon they will get their final-act reprieve by conquering the bad guy once and for all. It is textbook, and he couldn’t be more thrilled at the predictability, because if movies have taught him anything, it’s that the heroes should win at the end of the day. This is their alternative universe, the one in which she exists and he exists and they exist together, in whatever form that may be. He’s just glad they have a fighting chance at their sequel.

He came into this camp looking for revenge, and instead he found his home. And that is definitely worth living for.


	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflexively, they turn to each other, the sudden flashback hitting them both in perfect time. The same crackle in the air that filled their space back then is here tonight, another memory that belongs to them alone. They’re a little older and wiser and truthfully, a little more broken, too, but none of it matters for this brief instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope. Still not mine.

The fall air may be crisp and sweet, but inside his head it is decidedly gloomy.

If he were being completely honest, he’d admit that yes, his coworkers had been right, and this storm has been brewing for weeks. 

He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he’s feeling increasingly restless about something. It could be that he’s reluctantly coming to the realization that he is a growing fish in a shrinking pond — which is obvious to anyone in the agency, his peers having climbed the ladder or moved on to greener (and less fraught) pastures years earlier. 

Or it could be the weight of recent events crushing the whole team further into a crater inch by inch with each case they pursue. It’s as though with every leap forward they pursue in fighting the good fight, they take three steps back as the next obstacle claims one of their own. (Like mavericks too old and too weathered to still be playing cowboy.) There’s a pall over them now, with the latest blow leaving them all questioning how they can move on when, by all accounts, their time may be up.  

He put his game face on not long ago to comfort his partner and tell her that their job was to catch the bad guys, when it actually feels like there is seldom any stopping them. This is what he does on a never-ending loop— reject real life in the name of the Hollywood ending, because the other option is too overwhelming to bear. If he were completely honest, though, he'd acknowledge that some days, he agrees with her on the futility of their mission, but he won’t voice the thought out of fear of losing all hope. That’s when you know it’s time to give up for good.

His melancholy could just be about _her_ , period. It isn’t lost on him that she has whatever it is that’s going on with her professional-spook of a boyfriend, while he’s been festering in a rut for months. (Not that he’ll ever confess that to his nosey friends.)

The isolation is dangerous, because it invariably makes him introspective. Which on this night has returned him to the frat boy days that he was convinced lived in infamy, only to discover a part of himself that he’d persistently buried so deep he could fool himself into believing it was dead. 

It’s funny how these things work themselves out. You think your parents cannot possibly ever leave you, and then they both do in contrasting-yet-equally-devastating fashion. You think you’ll spend the rest of your life with someone, and they leave you at the altar.  You paint yourself as Big Man on Campus, and it turns out you were the butt of the joke all along.

It’s classic schoolyard psychology: hurt them before they hurt you. Only in this case, it’s an alternative universe in his mind, the one in which he isn’t the Lost Boy so desperately trying to find his home, and instead is the leader of the pack who refuses to let anything get to him until his heart grows three sizes too big for the charade.

(She was partly right, back then, when she claimed nothing sticks to him. In truth, everything sticks to him like he’s one giant web, but he’s cocooned on the inside so deeply that he doesn’t dare let himself feel it. Let someone else pick off the spoils for all he cares.)

No, he’d gambled on never having to revisit that era, which is when the meticulously constructed persona of Future-Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was conceived, all bark and brawn and denying any hint of weakness, in case a passerby wandered too close again. Every once in a while, an intruder breaks in, but it’s always against his will, and one of them inevitably ends up bound and gagged. 

So this is the score on this Thursday night, after strolling down memory lane in possibly the worst neighborhood of his psyche for the past week. Which is why it takes him longer than usual to register the message pinging on his phone as he sits and, well, sulks.

_Are you ready for your real present?_

Instinctively, he wants to answer with something innuendo-laden, as is their custom, both of them reveling in the safety of their supposed boundaries (or lack thereof). He settles for something mildly risqué— when all else fails, that genuinely makes him smile for even just a few seconds. He wonders if she’s even aware of that, and if it’s as comforting to her as it certainly is to him in these troubled times. (Or at any time.)

She texts him back an address and gives him a firm deadline — one hour — to arrive. Curiosity piqued, he knows not to argue. He’d been planning on settling in for the evening with Redskins game on TV, but he can’t help his conditioned response here. He won’t tell her this, but anytime she says jump, he doesn’t even bother asking how high— he’ll vault over that bar like a damn Olympian if that’s what it takes. 

He has more questions — is this a formal-attire kind of event, or a strictly ninja-black kind of place? — But he knows better at this point than to ask. Frankly, it’s a little thrilling to be ordered around, and he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise by overthinking.

(That’s what always seems to get them into trouble.)

He settles for business-casual — sport coat, open-collared blue checkered shirt with black slacks — and comes equipped with his favorite accessory, a charming smile that is reputed to dazzle more than one lovely lady. (Including this one.) When he finally shows up to the rendezvous point fifty-seven minutes later, he finds her there, leaning against a lamp post and every bit a vision underneath her black trench coat in a scarlet dress that shows just enough of her thigh to send his inner-Catholic-schoolboy running wild.  She gives him a grin that could bring him to his knees, if he hadn’t become so practiced at regaining his composure around her. (Occasionally about fifteen times a day, in fact.)

Then, it dawns on him just where they are, and he can’t deny the fire being stoked within him. Of all the places he presumed she’d lead him in the last hour, this one strangely missed his checklist. Happily so, it turns out. 

It is an old-school movie theater, a relic of the neighborhood’s past currently warring with the Capitol Hill yuppies razing postwar apartments in favor of modern condos. As a self-professed film aficionado, he prides himself in keeping up-to-date with all the city’s art houses, but this is one he’s avoided over the years, despite its excellent repertoire. Which is a shame, because it possesses a delightfully quaint quality that isn’t unlike the theaters to which his mother used to take him in the city as a kid, and suddenly a pang of nostalgia hits him. That, in fact, is why he hasn’t been here until now, but that’s a card he’s holding close to his vest for the time being. She couldn’t have known how this would hit him — no one does — but he’s grateful for the effort nonetheless. 

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world…” He starts, and it is now his turn to smile earnestly back at her, his attempts to remain suave rapidly giving way to his budding excitement at the promise of this evening. 

“I do not know about gin, but I think we may be able to procure some other refreshments inside.” The marquee lights are flickering in her eyes, and he feels like he’s already a little punch-drunk before the night’s even begun. Hell, he feels like she might be a little, too.

“And what, pray tell, are we doing here, Miss David?” She’s enjoying this dance, he can tell, and he almost doesn’t want to find out what happens next, lest the spell that’s been cast is broken. He understands that they’re on borrowed time, but for now he’s going to believe in a little magic.

“ _Well_ , Tony, I meant it when I said that I thought you could use a little cheering up. And while I have no doubt you will enjoy yourself _immensely_ at the mud-wrestling with McGee,” her brows shoot straight up in a pre-emptive scold,  “I thought something a little more refined was in order. And it seems like old Boogie might just be the answer.” She hands him two tickets, and he’s like a kid on Christmas morning. (So much so that he instantly forgives that crack. He still wonders if she does that on purpose sometimes.) 

The Avalon is running a weekly double-feature this month, and tonight’s viewing of _To Have and Have Not_ sends a jolt of lightning through him, transporting him to another night years ago echoing this evening’s electricity, one that also started off with a nod to Bogie and the potential of something new ahead.

They approach the antique ticket booth by the entrance, and he hands the cashier their stubs in a way he hopes is appropriately dashing and chivalrous befitting of the soiree’s theme. He’s happy to see that she obliges him without protest just this once.

They continue into the building in a companionable silence, and if he were fifteen years old, he would totally call this a date. But he isn’t, obviously, so in no way does this resemble a date. ( _But it could_.) Almost as if to prove his point, she walks up to the concession stand and orders them each their own tub of popcorn (“Unlike you, I do not want to have a cholesterol-induced heart attack before I’m fifty,” “Whatever, butter is the nectar of the gods, _Ziva_ ,”) and adds some drinks to wash down all that hydrogenated oil.  She hesitates for a moment before tossing some red licorice into the mix, too, throwing caution to the wind in the name of her sweet tooth. He can’t help but chuckle to himself, even after she glares at him. She’s so cute when she’s self-righteous.

Snacks acquired and exhilaration mounting, they follow the crowd into the screening room, and she lets him lead the way through the aisles to find the perfect spot to fully immerse themselves in the experience. He settles them into two seats in the back, just the way he likes it in these intimate venues, because somehow it makes him believe that it’s just him and the film reels sharing a secret for two hours. Only this time he’s let her into his little world — or rather she’s the one who’s invited herself in — and right now, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

He turns to her, finally, and sensing his stare, she faces him. “Thanks, Ziva.” It’s a loaded statement, and this isn’t just about the movie. Like so many other instances before, she understands this, too.

“You’re welcome,” she answers him with a nod, letting him enjoy the solitude. What she wants to say is that she knows who he is, that they all know who he is. That she understands that he isn’t just grateful for the night out, but the awareness that he has moved beyond his juvenile days. That it’s all a front for the kid who’d been strung up on that flagpole. That she’s happy she can share this experience with him, because this is the real Tony DiNozzo he is so unwilling to let others see.

But tonight, no words are needed, because this — the two of them right here — is enough. So rather than telling him all those things, she instead grabs a fistful of popcorn as the house lights dim and the projector whirs to life. He, in turn, is utterly mesmerized, not by the screen, but by the sight of his partner by his side, becoming engrossed in the story unraveling in black and white before them, despite her usual protests to the contrary. 

As each scene passes, and Bogie and Bacall tease each other with scorching looks and searing words, he cannot take his eyes off his own leading lady seated next to him. (Not that he would ever let her hear him call her that, because he values his life too much.) What he doesn’t realize while he averts his gaze intermittently (so as not to be labeled a total creep forever) is that she’s felt his laser focus all night long, and that in these brief minutes of respite, it is she who turns her own eagle eyes towards him, examining his every move as though he were the main attraction. 

Eventually, though, they both surrender to the movie magic, unable to deny the allure of the sizzle on-screen. Until one particularly jarring exchange rips them out of their shared reverie, recalling a night much like this one a lifetime ago.

_You know how to whistle, don’t you Steve? You just put your lips together and blow._

Reflexively, they turn to each other, the sudden flashback hitting them both in perfect time. The same crackle in the air that filled their space back then is here tonight, another memory that belongs to them alone. They’re a little older and wiser and truthfully, a little more broken, too, but none of it matters for this brief instant. 

When the lights come back up, and the dreamlike state does indeed fade, they will follow the audience back out into the lobby and eventually to their cars, and make small talk like they always do. They will not speak of what happened then or what could happen now, because they know this is not that place. 

But when they bid each other goodnight, she could swear that his step is a little lighter than it was when they arrived here, the weight of his demons gradually floating adrift. And he could swear that her face is aglow in a way it hasn’t been in months, like this might have been the most fun she’s had in longer than she’d care to admit as well. As though this was as much for her as it was for him.

They will go their separate ways after this, letting the moment pass like the grown-ups they’ve become. In the morning, he will enter the office with his usual bravado and spin a yarn so grandiose not a single person will buy it, and she will roll her eyes and trade barbs with him packed with more than a little bite. 

But when everyone’s attention is elsewhere, their eyes will meet again across the bullpen, and shy smiles will creep upon their faces before they avert their eyes and carry on with their day. And all will be right in their world, because she knows who he is and he knows who she is, and that’s all they need right now.

 


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve been to hell and back several times over, and have then come together imperfectly whole on more occasions than they can count, but this time seems different. There is no other man or woman, there are no more divided loyalties tearing them apart, no more rules to flout. More importantly, though, they are on the same page, where he is ready and she is ready and hell, the world is ready, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not mine. Just borrowing them for a minute. I'll put them back where I found them, CBS, I promise.

It starts like this, again.

It’s another long night after a physically and emotionally draining case that has once more shaken the very foundations of their team. As if they’ve rewound the tape, they find themselves rudderless without their leader, only this time they’ve gone down with the ship too. No longer afraid of what the future will hold, however, they’ve marked their lines in the sand, and maybe now it’s their turn to search for a new playground.

Just like back then, this isn’t exactly something they’ve planned. It’s more like the universe, for once, has perfectly aligned and forced them to crash into each other as the rest of their world collapses. This time, though, they are ready for it; they’ve learned their lessons and they know that finally, it will somehow be right.

So when he shows up at her doorstep at half past ten on a Tuesday night, she is not the least bit surprised. In fact, she’s been expecting him — even a bit giddy if she were being honest — as if the entire evening has been the prelude to the main event. After a beat, he knocks at the door, and the rush of adrenaline that courses through her is almost irrepressible. She reprimands herself to get a grip, because _Jesus_ , she isn’t a child anymore, but even though this isn’t the first time this has happened, it feels decidedly novel.

He leans against the open door in equal parts charm and exhaustion, and the sight of him spreads a warmth within her beyond mere arousal. While their day has been long and fraught, and the circles under his eyes unmistakable, his grin is absolutely infectious. Which is why she can’t help but smile back, taking the chance to drink him in. (So much for playing it cool.)

In some ways, she muses that he has no reason to be so cheerful. He was right to be hurt about her latest indiscretion, despite the fact that it’s not like he had a claim on her. Except he did, just like she does on him, no matter what label they put on _them_. Instead of writing her off, he inexplicably discerns her (admittedly self-destructive) grief process, and she’s pretty sure in that moment she can’t love him any more. (She doesn’t use that word, of course, not yet, but she’s as certain of this feeling as anything she’s ever felt before in her life.)

They stand like this for a while, suddenly shy while brimming with anticipation. They’ve been to hell and back several times over, and have then come together imperfectly whole on more occasions than they can count, but this time seems different. There is no other man or woman, there are no more divided loyalties tearing them apart, no more rules to flout. More importantly, though, they are on the same page, where he is ready and she is ready and hell, the world is ready, too. This is their moment, the climactic scene in their movie after all the misunderstandings have been cleared away and forgiveness bestowed and finally, _finally_ the star-crossed lovers become, well, uncrossed.

“Hey,” is all he can muster, because words have duly escaped him for the time being. (Maybe they’ve already used up all their words for a lifetime.)

“Hey,” she answers back, in their old refrain. They’ve been here before, but they may as well be teenagers for all the excitement they are trying (and failing) to keep contained. “Did you want to come in, or are you just going to stand in my doorway all night?”

“I don’t know, that depends, are you going to invite me in, or do I have to pull a John Cusack and dig out my boombox?”

As usual, she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but it’s enough to make her chuckle, and she nods at him to follow her inside. It’s a move that is familiar to both of them, yet tonight it signals a metamorphosis. Because they aren’t kids anymore and they have been around the block more than a few turns since the last time they were here, and instead of reuniting out of loneliness, they are at last meeting out of peace, plain and simple. After all these years, they’ve earned it.

“Do you want something to drink?” she voices eventually. Any coherent thought has vanished, and while she should be frustrated at her lack of control, she can’t be bothered to remember why. 

“No, I’m good, thanks.” He’s staring right at her now, a breath away from her face, and she’s forgotten what she asked him in the first place. The only thing she can see right now is him.

Neither one of them can stand to blink, their gaze is so intensely fixated on the other. This has been years in the making— not what will happen next, because that is a well-rehearsed routine of theirs — but the significance of it is a new chapter of their particular epic. This isn’t just about comfort or grief or loneliness or rules — or maybe it is, but it’s more than that too. It’s years of tug-of-war finally culminating in them both letting go just enough to reach equilibrium. 

She’s never been accused of being demure, but she unexpectedly finds herself unable to figure out how to bridge the gap, where he and she become a _them_. For all of his posturing otherwise, he is now at a loss at what to do next, too.

“Ziva…”

“ _Tony_.”

Her arched eyebrows and barely-contained smirk are enough to break the ice, and he rallies the strength to get this show on the road.

“Are you sure about this? Because this is it. The final frontier. No take-backs. I…” He hesitates, understanding that he can’t quite say what he truly feels, not yet. “I meant what I said earlier. I want this— _us_. But you have to be sure, too. Because this isn’t like then. There’s too much at stake now.” He’s stammering and searching for his words (and courage), afraid that somehow in the last twenty-four hours since they quietly laid their cards on the table out in the woods that she’s changed her mind.

 _His_ mind races through every possible contingency plan in case this goes haywire, until a Cheshire-cat grin spreads across her face. She steps into his space, reaching her hand behind his neck, and finally presses her lips onto his. Where their first kiss yesterday afternoon outside the cabin was tentative, both an apology and a request rolled into one, and the one last night outside his apartment sweet and hopeful after an impossible day, this one is all fire. There is a determination in her movements, a carefully-executed attack on his mouth that is stealthy and deliberate, designed to acquire its target. 

“ _Positive_.”

It’s all the permission he needs, and he answers her opening salvo with equal bravado, running one hand through her hair as the other grabs her hip close to him, and he pulls her mouth in for another round, proving that two can play at this game. With every gesture of their lips and swirl of their tongues, their hunger intensifies, and it isn’t long before they take this act to the bedroom. Their bodies instinctively fall into rhythm, just like they never stopped this particular habit (because they always did fit well together), but in this interlude there is no inherent countdown on their dance, and they take their time to reacquaint themselves with the blurred lines between them. 

The next morning, basking in luxurious lethargy as they rouse themselves from slumber, it isn’t lost on either of them that while what has just happened in the preceding hours isn’t new, this part is — that is, the spending the whole night together, waking up together, staying in bed together, having breakfast together, going back to bed together, _together_ part. It’s shaping up to be a glorious spring day, and they are reinvigorated. Woodland creatures may as well be fluttering around them for all their enchantment. 

(Neither of them are aware that this charmed period will be unceremoniously short.)

“We should get up,” she half-heartedly suggests as she languidly stretches out, making no actual effort to extricate herself from the comfort of her bed, or him. She hasn’t felt this lazy in, well, her entire life, yet she begins to believe that she could get used to this. 

“Why? We’re unemployed now. I say we stay in bed for oh, about ten days.” His arm pins her down across her abdomen to prove a point. (Her body agrees despite her best-laid plans.)

 “That does not sound wise,” she tenderly scolds, ever the serious one in this equation. “We are going to have to get out of here eventually and get jobs like grown-ups, or else that shiny new Camaro of mine will be repossessed. Then what will you do for rides, hmm? _Take the bus_?”

“Good one, Sweet Cheeks, but I’m not that desperate. I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers. I’ll get by.” His voice is like honey to her and he’s pretty sure his face is going to hurt, his grin is so huge, but he’s also certain he may never have been happier than in this moment. 

“Oh, God,” she chuckles, feigning disgust but doing a piss-poor job of meaning it. She matches his smile, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say she felt downright drunk right now, but she supposes this must be what love feels like. 

(She still cannot bring herself to say the words, but she’s getting closer to being able to admit to herself that _yes_ , that is what this feeling is that has been a recurring visitor all these years, only now it’s decided to be a permanent houseguest in her heart. Surprisingly, this doesn’t scare her anymore. Or at the very least, doesn’t scare her quite as much.)

They lie like this for a while, face-to-face across the pillows as the blaring sun beams down on them through the curtains. The day is theirs, to do absolutely whatever they wish. Which is a little overwhelming for two people who have had their every waking hour dictated by their careers for over a decade. Neither one of them has ever been very good at remaining idle, but they are also quick studies.

“Since we suddenly have all this time off, though, I have been thinking about going back to Israel.” She notices his breath hitch, as though all the air has been sucked out of the room, and quickly moves to reassure him. “ _Just_ for a visit.”

“Ah. Unfinished business?” He is choosing his words very carefully, she can tell, and for a second she chastises herself, because her recent actions are the reason why the prospect scares him so much.

“Something like that. My father’s lawyer wants to discuss his estate. And though I do not really want anything to do with it, I suppose I do not have much of a choice at this point. Besides, I would like to spend some more time with Shmeil under… _happier_ circumstances.”

This last part makes him smile again. While he is always wary of her return to her birthplace, somehow afraid each trip that she won’t come back, he thinks this is good for her, this time. For so long all he’s wished for is that she be allowed to act for herself and find her own path. He may have only met the Man of Steel once, but he recognizes that the elder statesman is one of the few people in her life before NCIS who genuinely cares for her without strings attached, and he wants her to have that kind of fresh start now. 

He tries not to let his misgivings show, because this is the New Them, where they open up and talk and trust and, well, do other things, too, so he swallows his panic and instead encourages her to reconnect with her roots, as a supportive partner should. (He doesn’t want to jinx it with “boyfriend” yet, and besides, the term hardly encompasses everything they are to each other.) She lived for so long having to separate her two identities, because neither one would accept her toeing the line between them. He hopes maybe she’ll finally be able to create her own new beginning ( _their_ own new beginning), where instead of having to cut herself in half in the name of loyalty to two places in which she never fully belongs, she can just be herself, infinite jagged pieces joined together in one beautiful puzzle.

Memories of his dinner out with the two of them in D.C. last winter begin to replay, a surreptitious date on which he was put to a test he is pretty sure he passed with flying (swimming) colors. (Even if he couldn’t keep up with the philosopher’s impressive wine consumption on a school night.)

“Well it’s hard to argue with an offer like that. You guys are going to paint the town red.”

“Hmm, perhaps. I am not sure I have his stamina, though.” She states this fondly as if she can read his mind, and he hopes to spend many more evenings with them both like that one in the near future. 

“So when are you thinking of going?”

“Actually, I was looking into booking a flight for next week.” She presses her lips together, and it’s her turn to be cautious now, gauging his reaction for any trace of alarm. She can tell this doesn’t sound good, but for once she has no ulterior motives. It’s just what seems right. 

“Huh.”

“I just figured that I would cut grass while the sun is out—“

“I think you mean make hay while the sun shines—“

“ _Whatever._ The point is, who knows when the next time will be that I can take a trip once everything is settled here. And these last few months have reminded me not to take anything for granted, because you never know when things will change. So I would like to spend time with those I care about while I still can.”

She looks him straight in the eyes at this, hoping he grasps her intention. That she means Shmeil, _yes_ , because she cannot deny that despite her dear friend’s vigor, he looks frailer with every visit, and time marches on as much for him as it does everyone else. But that she also means the man staring right at her in her bed, who she wants so desperately to let in even though every one of her past impulses is telling her this has to end. 

This, he gets. She has so little family left that she has every right to nurture the few bonds that haven’t been irreparably severed. So he swallows his own clashing fears, and he brushes a stray strand of hair away from her forehead and tucks it behind her ear before caressing her cheek. “Well, there’s definitely no harm in that. I hear Tel Aviv is lovely this time of year.”

“It is,” she misses his reference, but her genuine enthusiasm for her hometown delights him all over again. “Maybe you can see for yourself one day. I even promise I will not knock you down this time.”

It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that they can almost joke about this now, with only a tinge of regret. That even a year or two ago, his last disastrous trip to Israel would have been met with awkward pauses and terse words, but that is all a distant memory now in their brave new world of _them_. 

Instead, he’s battling every one of his instincts that is telling him to go with her whether she asks him or not. They’ve come a long way since then, he realizes, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. He has to remind himself that just a few weeks ago, she was shutting him out as she spiraled out of control in agony and bloodlust, and just because they’ve crossed this infamous, undefinable line doesn’t mean that they will be picking out china patterns anytime soon. Hell, he should probably work on getting an adult-sized bed for his own apartment first before embarking on a romantic getaway. ("I may be adventurous, Tony, but I have standards. No sleepovers until you get a big-boy bedroom.") Maybe she isn’t the only one with some loose ends to tie up.

(Later, he will replay this moment hundreds of times, and wonder what would have happened if he had tagged along from the start, instead of waiting for her to invite him. Maybe they would have scared themselves into ending this before it really began. Maybe they both would have been killed by the shadows they were unaware were looming. Or maybe they would have slain their latest dragon together and ridden off into the sunset like they deserved.)

“Say when, and I’m there.” He ultimately chooses to go with "unabashedly goofy with happiness" at this point, and he doesn’t even care that he’s breaking each of his own Rules. The DiNozzo Code never applied when it came to her, anyway. (Not since that summer.) There will be a time and place for them to sort all of this out (until there isn’t), and for now, he wants to stay just like this for as long as they are allowed.

Three days later, he drives her to the airport in her precious sports car, and she doesn’t even protest about relinquishing the reins to him. It is the first time he’s left her apartment other than for food since that first night, and the absolute normalcy of their domesticity astounds him, but he knows better than to remark on it lest he break this spell again. She insists he drop her off to save the absurd parking fees (“You are unemployed, remember? An hour here will end up costing you your last paycheck,” she quips) and in turn he insists that there is no way he is letting her board that plane without a proper send-off. (“Oh, I thought this morning _was_ my send-off,” she teases sultrily, and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to turn the car around and show her a repeat performance.) 

Instead, he plays the chivalrous hero and wheels her modestly-sized suitcase (she’s always traveled light, and there’s no reason to believe this trip will last more than a few weeks) through the airport to the airline check-in counter, and ignores the slight pang in his chest when he has to answer the nosy agent that no, he will not be joining his girlfriend ( _girlfriend_ ) on this occasion. He’s more focused on the fact that the woman in question doesn’t correct the would-be interrogator or roll her eyes at the moniker. Now _that_ is intriguing. 

As they finally reach the security checkpoint, once again that gnawing feeling in his gut claws at him and gives him pause, but he tells himself he is overreacting. If he goes full-on bunny-boiler on her after a week, there isn’t much hope for them making it through this, is there? So he overcompensates with suaveness, determined to play it cool even though it makes him miserable to see her leave. 

(What he doesn’t know is that she’s running through the same emotional rollercoaster, but that hasn't stopped her before, so she forces herself to power through this like she’s done at every other goodbye in her life.)

They look at each other for a few minutes, neither one knowing just what to say. This is uncharted territory for both of them, and they’re suddenly at a loss for words. After half a week together, and a decade by each other’s sides before that, this predicament is one at which neither has had practice.

“Well, I guess this is it,” she eventually comments. She’s been excited for this latest pilgrimage of hers, but now that she’s faced with actually leaving, she finds that she wants to run back the other way. But that has never been her style.

“I guess it is.” He isn’t any happier about this than she is, but he knows it’d be unfair to plead with her not to go. (If he had, she probably would have obliged. She would have waited another week or a month or a year, and their entire existence would have been altered. But he didn’t, so neither did she.)

“Tony, I…” she starts, but again there doesn’t seem to be any way to finish that sentence that can adequately express what she feels right now.

“Hey, I get it. Say hi to Shmeil for me.” He’s as tongue-tied as she is, so he hopes what’s left unsaid will be enough.

“I will.”

She gives him a weak smile, soldiering on through this goodbye like she has a million times, and it takes everything he has to not crumble. But rather than give in to it, he simply reaches for her face and places a tender kiss on her lips to say what it is he really means. It is an elixir for both their melancholy. She reluctantly pulls away, taken aback that the retreat physically pains her.

“I’ll call you when I get there?”

He wants to tell her that that won’t be before she reads the approximate three-dozen messages he’s sure to send her in the meantime as she flies over time zones and war zones, but instead he agrees that that sounds good, before kissing her once again. They finally part, and she joins the queue of disgruntled passengers getting frisked and wanded and otherwise hating their lives thanks to modern air travel. She looks back at him one last time as she reaches the entrance, and flashes him a grin that leaves him weak in the knees as she waves goodbye for good.

He resignedly heads to the parking lot and makes his way back home, this time to his own abode that he’s neglected during this escape. He swears he can sense the disapproval radiating from his scaly roommate Kate, who knows just why the neighbor-girl has been feeding her instead of him when he walks through his front door. He realizes he should shower or do some laundry or at the very least order some take-out, but instead he grabs a beer from his fridge and slumps into his couch, as the events of the past few days finally hit him. Just as he’s about to grab his TV remote, his phone beeps buried deep inside his coat pocket, and for a moment he’s tempted to ignore it, convinced it’s going to be McGee asking him for the fifth time to come with him to console Abby and drown her (their) sorrows.

He’s glad he doesn’t, though, because what he sees lights him up more than he’ll realize in the coming months.

_Here’s looking at you, kid._

In this instant, this warms his heart, reminiscent of quiet rooms and darkened screens, and so much more over the years. He won’t grasp the irony until later, that the sentimental words she sends to cheer him up before boarding her flight are more on-the-nose than she’ll ever recognize. That he’ll be Bergman getting on the plane on a foggy tarmac, and she’ll be Bogie sending him away for his own good despite it breaking both their hearts. 

He can’t help the squeeze in his chest as he reads her sign-off over and over on a loop, suddenly incredulous that this is their reality right now. As he takes another swig from the bottle, he figures out exactly what his plans are for the night, and gets up to expertly peruse his library until he zeroes in on what he seeks. He pops the disc into the player and settles himself back down onto the couch for the night, instantly lulled by his old familiar friend.

What he doesn’t know is that at that very moment, 30,000 feet in the air, she is doing the same, surrounded by strangers but completely alone in her reverie. (She never indulges in the in-flight entertainment system when she flies, preferring to either work or read or, rarely, sleep, but this trip is different.) They are both musing that the other should be next to them right now, and shocked at just how enmeshed their lives have become in such a short amount of time. But they can’t tell each other this, so they have to let their history speak for itself.

When Rick spots Ilsa in the café, they will both smile wistfully, and won’t admit to a little mist covering their eyes as the memories flood their consciousness. The hours will pass by. They will both become restless in their separate confines, and wonder if they’ve made a mistake today, but quickly dismiss the notion as childish. They don’t yet understand that the past few days  _was_ their Paris (along with their actual Paris, but that is another story), which they will always have but never regain. 

Tonight, they will revel in their peace. Because after all this time, they’ve earned it. They’ve staked their claim (and they will just as quickly lose it) but for tonight, they can just be. 

 _\- How long was it we had, honey?_  
- _I didn't count the days._  
_\- Well, I did. Every one of them._


	5. v.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He once claimed he was the guy who saw the reality in front of him and refused to accept it, and she asks herself just how she can bend the laws of time and space for him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. (Or else there wouldn't be this much angst ahead.)

This is not the way he planned it.

When he booked his ticket to Tel Aviv months ago, their reunion should have happened like this:

She was going to pick him up at International Arrivals, and he was going to saunter right up to her, jacket hooked over his shoulder on his finger, suave as can be and rocking the hell out his carefully-chosen form-fitting jeans and tailored shirt despite an interminable thirteen-hour flight. She would cock her head at him and ask him what took him so long, and he’d playfully reply that his private jet was unexpectedly detained so he had to travel with the plebes. She’d roll her eyes and he’d throw her his best disarming grin, then kiss her until they’d made themselves appropriately obscene in public, before racing back to her place and making their reunion official.

(Because that is a thing they were allowed to do now.)

Instead, it goes like this:

He’s chased leads throughout Europe and the Middle East for weeks. Like a live version of _Where’s Ziva?_ , only without the funny glasses and striped red shirt, and with more roadblocks than the Beltway at rush hour.  He’s frustrated, because it shouldn’t be this way anymore. They’d been through all the trials and tribulations and conquered their demons, and they were at last ready to ride off into the sunset together. That was their reward for a job well done. 

The brief respite they enjoyed when they resigned from their posts now seems like a cruel joke, giving them a taste of what could be before ripping it away and catapulting them right back to where they stood prior to their sabbatical. This part of their journey should be over and done with, but life just seems to pull them back in, one terrorist cell at a time.

He is zealous in his search, applying the same methodological approach to tracing her breadcrumbs that he does (did) to catching the bad guys. The rules have changed, though, and he can’t seem to make heads or tails of what is going on. It reminds him of the old days, when he’d hang on her every word and wait as she figured out what she wanted, only it’s worse now, because he’s tasted how good they are as _them_ , and he’s worried he won’t catch up to her before their clock runs down. Something in his gut is telling him that there is trouble afoot, but he doesn’t want to give in to the fear. That’s never ended well for either of them.

He refuses to throw in the towel, regardless of all signs pointing to, “she’s just not that into you.” (Or, “she really doesn’t want to see anyone because she may or may not be a murder target.”) However, he can’t deny the weariness setting in down to his bones. The adrenaline of ensuring her safety has been replaced by pure reflex at this point, and though he won’t stop until he can hold her in his own two arms, doubts increasingly infiltrate his thoughts as he wonders just what he’ll uncover when he finally lays his eyes on her. He brought her back from the dead once, but even he has to question how many chances they get to escape the Grim Reaper before this turns into _Final Destination_.

He’s jumped around from Israel to Egypt to Yemen and just about every place in between, like a maddening game of hopscotch which never seems to end. This is when he realizes the error of his ways, though. Rather than tracking her movements, he should be going back to basics. And there is only one place with which she’d ever consider reconnecting, when it comes down to it, and that is her home. For good or ill, it is her promised land, and he knows she has returned there as sure as he’s ever known anything. Call it profiling, call it a hunch, call it whatever you’d like, but as he lands in Tel Aviv again, he’s certain that this chase is coming to an end for good today. (He doesn’t yet appreciate how final this chapter will be.)

Which is how he finds himself driving down a lonely winding road at sunset, clouds encroaching on the sky of gold and pink. The wind is starting to pick up, and there’s an unseasonal storm brewing on the horizon. (He won’t understand until much later how fitting a metaphor that will be for them both in too short a time.) He pulls into an approach, confident as the house comes into view that this is his destination, since it’s exactly how he imagined it would be. (The fact that he finally dug up one of her contacts who tipped him off on her hideaway didn’t hurt, either.) It’s fitting that this rustic farmhouse surrounded by palm trees and olive groves would be where she was born, a study in contrasts between the ancient and the modern that seems to define this whole region. 

And it is where he finally reunites with her, after all these months. He parks the car down the lane and walks up the dirt path — once well-traveled but presently swallowed by the surrounding grass in its retirement from daily use — just like a homing beacon is pulling him in. As he closes in on the building, he is nearly knocked to the ground (again) by a compact mass of sheer willpower and brute force hurling towards him from around the corner, and it is only by the third time he yells her name that the would-be attacker finally relents once she recognizes her intruder.

They stand like this for a while, staring each other down and each suppressing their own kind of panic about what is happening. What he witnesses scares the shit out of him, though, because instead of the content, fulfilled woman he left at Dulles in the spring, the person before him is a deer caught in the headlights, unsure of how to react to this latest disturbance. He’s been by her side through thick and thin over the years, but _this_ — this is something entirely different, and he has no idea what is in store for them. It tears him up inside to see that whatever or whoever has hunted her down over these months has succeeded in stealing that tranquility from her, and he’s in full-on recovery mode trying to plan his next step to bring her back to life.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He can’t help himself and figures when all else fails, a little drollness is just the shot in the arm he needs to regain his control. He expects her to retort with something like, “Well, this _is_ my house,” as would be her custom in the past, but she just keeps looking at him vacantly, and that is when he realizes they are really in trouble. A Ziva who cannot even snark back at him is one who has gone off the deep end, and no amount of strategizing has prepared him for this.

“You should not be here,” is what she mutters eventually, as if just the effort of proclaiming those words drains her to her core. She is quiet, and it isn’t only the sky that has clouds hanging over it. He flashes back to a dark period not too long ago, and it’s killing him to see her back in this state. That was supposed to be ancient history, but in their world, history has a pesky tendency to repeat itself over and over again until they are completely twisted beyond repair and powerless to undo the knots they’ve tied themselves into.

The sky finally crackles, and the looming thunder is enough to shake them out of this standoff. She is the first to break eye contact, and skulks back into the house; he doesn’t think twice about following her in. The unwitting hostess heads into the kitchen with purpose, but stops in her tracks at the counter beneath the window. She pauses there for a moment, her hands leaning on the stone and her mind wandering to a place he’ll never unravel. 

The former agent decides to try his luck, and approaches her slowly. He reaches his arm across her back and rests his hand on her hip, aching to reconnect, and they stay there for a bit, she gazing out the window as the skies open and he at the tempest displayed across her face. 

“Ziva,” he finally rasps, because there are things that need to be said and he can’t bear seeing her in so much turmoil right before his eyes. She ignores his plea at first, but when he asks again a little more insistently, she ultimately relents and turns to face him. His sparring partner raises her chin defiantly, ready for a fight, but her ploy is dismantled by a telltale quiver, and the hint of tears threatening to flee her eyes. 

“Ziva, whatever it is, whatever is going on— I’m here now.” It’s the best he can offer. (How do you put into words that you’d follow someone to the ends of the earth without it sounding like a cliché? Unless, of course, you have done it. Twice, in fact.) He can see that she is searching his expression for a way to get out, to pretend this isn’t happening, but in the end, she folds, and sighs as though every last breath escapes her.

He reads this as a sign that she has temporarily suspended the war, and chooses the moment to wrap his arms around her, like he’s been dreaming of doing since she left. At first, her body goes limp, forever resistant, but after a beat she encloses her own arms around his waist, holding on like he’s her lifeline. (She knows that’s what he is, what he’s always been to her, but she’s too confused right now to tell him so.) She rests her cheek on his chest, and though she doesn’t make a sound, he can feel her tears streaming down onto his shirt. He’d do anything to make her pain go away, but in this instant he’ll settle for being her shelter from the storm.

They stay like this for what feels like ages, he with his chin on her head as he reassuringly rubs circles on her back, and she still resting her head over his heart (like she always will from here on out). Eventually, she stirs and meets his gaze, the raging fire from before gone, but an unease remains over her nonetheless. He takes a chance at this, and delicately cups her jaw to place a soft caress on her lips. It is a kiss hello, a kiss to soothe, and a kiss of desperation mixed into one, but for the moment, it does the trick. 

They break apart, and she glances at him once more. She grapples with every one of her survival instincts warning her to stop this before it’s too late, but her body betrays her will and moves towards him, always. 

(There will be occasion to rip that bandage later. Tonight, she surrenders to this comfort, because she understands better than he does that it will not last. She assumes this will be yet another strike against her, but she is helpless to stop this.) 

She takes him by the hand and just like she has in the past, leads him to the bedroom, where they find themselves in a familiar rhythm that never fails them. It inebriates and exhilarates these star-crossed lovers, and they can lie to themselves that when it happens like this, nothing else matters. That they are not on borrowed time and that the decision hasn’t already been made, in spite of what they whisper to each other in the night.

Sometime before dawn, the storm outside has cleared away, and he fools himself into thinking that the one within these walls has, too, as they lie in bed still tangled in the sheets and each other. She’s been quiet since he got here (except for when she decidedly wasn’t), but when she tenderly rubs her hand over his scruff, he makes a Grizzly Adams crack and she almost smiles (albeit sadly), and he starts to believe that they are getting back to normal (their new normal). He knows that she’s been perpetually analyzing this state of affairs, and his presence throws a wrench into whatever plan she’s concocted this time. Yet he wonders if maybe that isn’t a good thing after all.

As the sun slowly rises, he’s vaguely conscious of a chirping coming from his duffel bag somewhere in the house, but he can’t be bothered to leave this cocoon to silence the source. She, on the other hand, is all too aware of the alert, the sound reminding her that there are still people looking for her (for them), and that they cannot remain on this course. He once claimed he was the guy who saw the reality in front of him and refused to accept it, and she asks herself just how she can bend the laws of time and space for him now.

Inevitably, they do both get up, and the night’s peaceful interlude quickly gives way to the nerves of the previous day. When he emerges from the bedroom in a (relatively) fresh shirt and jeans, he’s disheartened to see the tension back in her shoulders just from her silhouette across the living room, and he curses himself for not waking as early as she had. It’s given her a head start on thinking, and for them, that is always dangerous.

She is trying, though, and when she offers him some coffee, he hopes that she might be thawing. He senses, despite her protests upon his arrival, that she is glad to see him, even if she’s scared. They make their way around the kitchen a little awkwardly, she asking simple questions about his breakfast choices and he answering simply lest he rock the boat. The dutiful soldier is putting her defenses up, preparing for eventual battle, but she seems to be more at war with herself over what to do about him. He figures he’s just as well to act a bystander before jumping into the fray. So they sit across the kitchen table from each other and sip their drinks, as each gathers the courage for what must be done next.

But fate intervenes, and finally the beeping from his bag returns, more persistently in this go-around. That is when she ultimately chooses which mask to don, and her eyes go steely. She pushes away from the table, and he can feel the anger radiate off her for reasons he cannot fathom. He lets out an exasperated sigh and hangs his head for a second, before searching for the offending device and locating a spot to conceal his whereabouts for the video conference he is sure is waiting for him. What he wants to do is tell her loved ones back home that she is safe and ask for their help to keep them all that way, but one glance at her hardened gaze across the room, and he knows better than to submit himself to that wrath just yet. 

(Later, he will wish he’d spilled the beans to anyone who’d listen, but at this point, he still holds hope they can fix this together.)

Exhausted, he puts his game face on, and through the entire call, he never quite pays attention to anything McGee says, more concerned that the Boss is going to see right through him ( _which he does_ ), or worse yet, that she’ll somehow disappear in the handful of minutes it takes to get them to stand down. 

He doesn’t realize that in the few moments he leaves her alone on the porch, she fortifies her resolve to go through with her plan. That niggling doubts had wormed their way into her overwrought mind throughout the night as she remembered why she had wanted him here all along, craving the solace of his calming influence, but his determination to give their former leader a SitRep while she desperately tries to get as far away from that life as possible convinces her that they cannot keep doing this, that _she_ cannot keep doing this. That she will not return to who she was in D.C., and therefore must send him away before she takes him down with her. Because he is a good man who will give up everything for what he feels is right, and she is certain that she is not deserving of that sacrifice.

(No, if he hadn’t left her alone for those few minutes, and had stayed with her in that kitchen, he may have won their staring contest and her determination would have crumbled under his embrace. And if he’d answered the call alongside her instead, with Gibbs in full view, she may not have been able to say no to the closest thing to a father she’d ever had. But he did leave, and in her own way, so did she.)

He ends the call, and everything changes. The tentative faith he held in the early morning is crushed by her new facade, and he’s frantic to start chipping away at her walls. He will make his vow to her as though his continued existence depends on it (because it does), and she will give in an inch in spite of herself, because she’s missed him so much she believes she may have forgotten how to breathe until he showed up on her doorstep. They will have precious few days, and he will attempt every play in his Book of Ziva to prove to her that she is worthy of this life, and briefly even feel like they are getting somewhere. Like maybe they can come back stronger than before, as in every other time they’ve faced losing their hold on one another. It is their epic, after all, and this is merely another obstacle before their well-earned reconciliation.

But a few nights later, they are on another tarmac and  the chips have fallen. They do not yet understand the magnitude of what has just happened. (She won’t for another few weeks, he for a few years.) The tragic heroes say their goodbyes, holding back for the sake of the other when they should have crashed right back into one another and said the things that went unsaid. (That he was a heartbeat from getting off that plane, and she was a heartbeat away from taking him home with her for good.)

He is Bergman, and she is Bogie, and this is not Paris.


	6. vi. maybe not today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He realizes that regardless of everything he’s been told, he still presumed he’d find her here. It’s stupid at best, and unhealthy at worst, but he can’t help it. This place has held a mystique over him for years, for everything that did happen that summer and everything that didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They still don't belong to me at all, but I did my best to make them suffer just the way the show likes it! (I kid. Sort of.)

He isn’t sure what he expected by coming here.

Empirically, the former investigator knows it’s going to be as barren as any disaster site he’s scoured long after the dust has cleared. Years of professional experience have trained him for this moment, he kids himself. As though there are particulates he can hold onto to make this entire situation real — or maybe _less_ real than it is right now. As though the last few weeks haven’t already ripped him apart over and over any time he stops to breathe for half a second.

Which is why in spite of all his supposed preparation, this wanderer is decidedly _un_ prepared for the scene before him as he finally pulls onto the dirt road leading to what was a beloved sanctuary. Where previously stood an old farmhouse, steeped in history behind its stone and mortar, today he finds piles of rubble, returned to the earth as completely as the people who once lived within it. He’s been denying this since the day he saw the flash on the screen that turned his world upside down, but coming face-to-face with the devastation shakes him in ways he wasn’t even aware were possible.

All that’s left of the home is one small section near (what was) the back, an addition to the main structure added late into its existence, when the modern needs of a growing family outweighed the rustic charm of country life. There was never anything particularly remarkable about it, save for the fact that it is now well on its way to joining the debris surrounding it. One of the walls has already come down with the rest of the destroyed building, and the roof is that only in name, caving in further with every passing minute. The wreckage is more like a theater stage, letting the audience in on the fifth act of this particular tragedy.

But, no matter its structural soundness, it’s still there. A reminder that they were once here, that _she_ was once here. Beyond the soot that has left a patina on everything, he can see the soft yellow of what was his daughter’s — _their daughter’s_ — room, and he’s inexplicably overcome with the detail. In the unrelenting chaos, he hasn’t had time to stop and think about what their life was like Before; that the woman he left behind to search for answers went out and painstakingly picked colors for the little girl’s room, careful as always to prove in her own way how much the child was loved in the solitude of this compound. 

The dresser and the rocking chair, like the rest of the house, definitely spun a tale at one time in their lives (no baby furniture for this soldier — far too practical for something to be outgrown so quickly), and probably belonged to some great-great-great aunt who kept all her worldly possessions within the drawers. The crib in the far corner is an extravagance in comparison, its sleek and solid oak frame holding up surprisingly well given its recent exposure to the elements, containing in its shell disheveled baby blankets whose occupant was wrestled away into thin air that night. The new father finds it impossible to believe that these planks of wood somehow shielded his daughter from the horrors that took her mother, and he’s grateful once again for small miracles. 

He realizes that regardless of everything he’s been told, he still presumed he’d find her here. It’s stupid at best, and unhealthy at worst, but he can’t help it. This place has held a mystique over him for years, for everything that did happen that summer and everything that didn’t. He’s replayed that interlude like a worn-out record, mulling the _what ifs_ and _so whats_ like a favorite song. He should know better by now, but the house is like a ghost haunting his soul, and he can’t help wishing that she would come walking out the non-existent door, the way she did the last time he was here. 

(No, not like the last time, because in this do-over he’d never leave. He’d plant roots in the goddamn porch if that’s what it took. He thinks maybe that if he’d done that in the first place, none of this would have happened. He doesn’t consider that if he’d stayed, perhaps neither of them would be here now to save their daughter.)

She is everywhere, he suddenly remarks. She’s in the wisp of curtains that remain on the windows, the intricate patterns adding flair to the girl’s room that were distinctly _her_ sophisticated taste and not any mass-produced toddler fare. She’s in the scorching summer wind, summoning flashbacks to heavy conversations and tangled limbs he at once wants to forget and never let go. She’s in the olive grove at the other end of the yard, where promises were made that they somehow knew would be broken, but they allowed themselves the fleeting fantasy of pretending like they could be those people for a little while. 

And that’s when he remembers one particular day in the orchard, where she decided who she wanted to be, not who she was _told_ to be, and an ache deep within triggers at the memory. He wonders if she made it through that list, righting a lifetime of wrongs for which she felt responsible, caught in a never-ending spiral of remorse. But then he thinks of their little girl, and believes that she must have followed through, no matter how they left things three years ago. Because their child is happy and safe and loved, and her mother is the reason for that.

(Right now, he won’t give in to the bouts of frustration that _he_ should be the reason for that, too, if only he hadn’t been removed from the equation. In his current state of grief, he would still give just about anything to be able to see her again. The outrage will consume him in due course.)

He hikes to the familiar location, and guilt nags at him for what he’s about to do. Some secrets should remain buried, and he feels like he’s somehow disrespecting her memory for uncovering them once more, like it is one more slight heaped upon an eternity of betrayals the loyal servant encountered in this place. But he also knows she would probably be the first person to dismiss his qualms as superstitious. Besides, he can lie to himself that he’s doing this for their daughter, that she will want to have any piece left of her mother’s existence when she is old enough to understand, and it suffices to spur him forward.

He imagined the grass would be more overgrown at the spot, but gardening has never been his forte, exactly. He begins to dig with his hands, clawing his way through the earth like he’s burrowing a tunnel to Narnia. (He may be mixing his movie metaphors, but he figures he’s allowed the confusion under the circumstances.) The pads of his fingers start to feel raw, and he knows he’s going to have more than a few blisters when he’s done, but the exertion also gives him a welcome distraction from the turmoil within him. 

The explorer finally reaches his treasure, the ornate case safeguarding a young girl’s secrets and her older self’s regrets. He pulls it out of its grave and brushes the dirt off gently, like an archeologist revealing ancient ruins. (He supposes that is kind of what he’s doing here, piece by piece.) It is sacred— a chalice holding the essence of her when she cannot be here — and he affords it the appropriate reverence.

He hesitates for another moment, questioning whether he can really go through with this, whether he should have waited another month or year or decade to perform this ceremony with the only person she would have really permitted to do this when the moment was right, but it’s too late now. With a final sigh, he unlocks the ornate box, and is relieved that his prize is still there, as though he can pretend that he is with her like the last time.

He unfolds the aging ruled sheet, yet another pang hitting his chest as he lays his eyes on the neat penmanship of an innocent child, and the more familiar scrawl of the woman she became. He vows right away that their daughter will reach these benchmarks her mother could not. She can be a dancer (or not) and speak twelve languages (or just the one— he hopes at least two) and do all the things that were denied to so many before her. He then stops in his tracks as he makes his way down the list, and is shocked when he notices that it is not exactly as he’d remembered it years ago. 

 _I will stop this for him_.

He watched her silently amend her manifesto at the dining room table then, daring not to push for an explanation (or hope he might be the man in question). Later, in the dark of night on the tarmac, he chastised himself for not realizing that Boss would have come first, since he was the one in their dysfunctional family who would be most familiar with the particular self-loathing that befalls those with their unique set of skills. Their leader had given her the opportunity to break away from her fate, and it shouldn’t have been a surprise that it was the elder’s approval she sought more than anyone’s. (Even more than his own. He could admit it stung a little, but he understood where she was coming from.)

In the present day, however, the missive has changed. _For him_ is crossed out, and underneath, in more recent blue ink, she’s added “ _for her_ ,” underlined twice for emphasis. He knows instinctively who she means, because he felt that very same certainty the night he left Gibbs’ basement. He would do anything for his child, of this he has no doubt, and it still amazes him how absolutely primal the reaction is in him. This little person who is half of him and half of her and fully her own self— at nearly two years old, already demonstrating her father’s goofy sense of humor and her mother’s piercing gaze — to her, he belongs completely.

It makes him wonder when she changed her heading. Was it when she found out she was pregnant? Or felt the baby kick? When their daughter was born, or came home, or took her first steps? Again, there is a budding irritation in him which he refuses to admit is anger (there will be time for that later) at all these moments he should have shared, and will forever be witheld. Mostly right now he’s just shattered that she is not there with him. 

Further down the page, though, there is  yet another amendment (this time dark black), and it piques his curiosity that she apparently kept footnoting her list as she continued her journey of self-discovery, or whatever it was that she was doing in the last three years. 

_I will tell him._

Just as the preceding proclamation, he understands who the intended subject is, and his heart breaks all over again for the fact that this one, she did not get to finish. He wants to scream to the wind that _yes_ , she most definitely should have told him, about everything— about the baby, about her fears, about _whatever_ it was she got roped into that ended in her death (which he still can’t bring himself to accept) — but he’s made himself so hoarse with all his sorrow recently that he knows it would be futile. 

As the exasperation subsides, he muses to himself that in some way, it is a small comfort. The bereaved man has wondered over these past weeks whether he would have ever discovered this tiny piece of his heart in human form had it not been for the cruel twist of fate that led him to them both. He finds it hard to believe that his former partner would have ever kept this from him in the first place (no matter what shifty Mossad directors may tell him), not when she’d been so adamant about safeguarding the little family she had left before, well, _everything_ happened and she didn’t come home in the fading summer sun. He's now convinced that at some point she would have reached out, and another squeeze in his chest reminds him that she never got the chance, and he’ll never have the opportunity to ask her why. 

Something catches his eye inside the box: where the paper had been lays a bundle of photos, and he takes care to pick them up as though they could disintegrate at his mere touch. The first is a familiar sight, the dog-eared picture of a serious boy and his two smiling sisters still unmarred by the horrors each would experience later in their lives. The next item is a close-up of a newly-born infant wrapped in a hospital-issue receiving blanket sleeping soundly in her mother’s arms, and the scene stops him dead in his tracks. He should have been the one to take the snapshot, of course, but the loss of what could have been overwhelms him, since this should have been _their_ family. Nonetheless, he can’t help but feel the same awe looking at this child as he can see on her mother’s face in the photo. 

The discovery shocks him: what follows are another handful of baby photos, more milestones he assumes he missed as the infant grew into toddlerhood. This whole situation is so foreign to him that he hadn’t even begun to wonder about these mementos that would probably be lost forever to the blaze, still trying to come to terms with the live subject of these pictures now ever-present in his life. He notices that the woman is not profiled in any of the others, like she was deliberately cutting herself out of the equation when deciding which memories to preserve for all time. 

The sole anomaly amongst the pictures is a shot of a beguiling dame in front of a Parisian café he’d know anywhere, because he’d been mesmerized by the scene in person as its photographer, a grown-up token hidden between the baby’s landmarks. He lingers on the images for a while, and wonders just what compelled her to preserve these specific keepsakes in this makeshift vault, as if she knew he’d find her one day and would need these reminders of a past life. Despite his anger and his grief, he’s thankful that he’s got one more piece of her, more evidence that she once walked this earth and breathed this air and _lived_.

(He hasn’t had time to think about the oddity of the hidden treasure amidst the ruins. One day, this will all make sense, as much as is possible, and he will have answers for their daughter. Now, all he can do is ponder.)

He debates what to do next; in spite of his prior certainty, doubt nags at him, and he feels as though taking the box home would be wrong. He knows it’s silly and rationalizes that he cannot leave it here forever. That eventually, the property will be sold and homes rebuilt, and the coffer will be but a relic of a stranger’s life to whoever unearths it. Yet, something tells him that for now, it remains tied to this land, belonging to it as assuredly as the trees that surround this unmarked grave. So he folds the list of _Wills_ and replaces it inside before closing the lid and interring it once more. One day, this story will come to an end, but for now, it is decidedly _To Be Continued_.

The photos, though— those he can’t bring himself to relinquish, and he places them inside his shirt pocket, close to his heart. He cannot explain it, but he senses that they mean something, more than simply demonstrating beyond the shadow of a doubt that this mother cherished her little girl with everything she had. He supposes it’s absurd of him, but he almost believes the pictures are a message, a puzzle he is not yet ready to piece together, but sometime in the future, the pair of them will figure this out. She may be gone, but even in her absence, she’s left him a final code to crack, ever the enigma. It is little comfort, but he takes solace in the fact that it gives him just that much more time with her, in whatever form it may be.

Years ago, he came here to find her, only to leave this very grove with nothing but regrets he will never quite reconcile. Today, he once again set foot on this land hoping to retrace her steps, and just as it was back then, he is unable to comprehend how he can leave so empty. But then he suddenly realizes that all this time he’s been looking for her, she is the one who has found him. Over and over, inches away or oceans apart, she uncovered and discovered him when he couldn’t even recognize himself. And with a final whisper in the wind, under the spell of the protective branches and dancing leaves, she has done it again. He weeps her loss and the story that will never be, but _she found him_ , and that will be their epic. 


End file.
